Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems
|161.||Ballad Of A Ship||1/3/2003|
|162.||Ballad Of Broken Flutes||1/3/2003|
|164.||Ballad Of Dead Friends||1/3/2003|
|167.||Another Dark Lady||1/3/2003|
|169.||The House On The Hill||1/3/2003|
|170.||Ballad By The Fire||1/3/2003|
|172.||Mr. Flood's Party||1/3/2003|
|173.||An Old Story||1/3/2003|
|174.||A Happy Man||1/3/2003|
Comments about Edwin Arlington Robinson
Mr. Flood's Party
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone ...
“Whether all towns and all who live in them—
So long as they be somewhere in this world
That we in our complacency call ours—
Are more or less the same, I leave to you.
I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile,
We’ve all two legs—and as for that, we haven’t—
There were three kinds of men where I was born:
The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross.
Now there are two kinds.”